


Asylum

by acchikocchi



Series: Quedarse [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:43:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/acchikocchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What begins as exile doesn't have to remain that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asylum

**Author's Note:**

> For [dreamofthem](http://dreamofthem.livejournal.com) as part of [valentinesplay](http://valentinesplay.livejournal.com).

  
The rain was so fine it was nearly mist. Perhaps it was. Patrice put a hand out and observed, frowning, a fine wet sheen form on his palm. He retracted it to wipe against his coat, where imperceptible droplets already clung to stray threads of wool.

Behind him, the carriage that had brought him from the relay station clattered off down the high street. Patrice had to tilt his head back to take in the whole of the looming edifice before him. Absently, he put a hand to his pocket. The crackle of paper within was sufficiently reassuring for him to withdraw his hand and ascend the steps.

Mounted on the door was an iron lion's head, holding an iron ring in its mouth. He took hold of the ring and knocked it against the dark and heavy wood one, two, three times.

For a long moment, nothing. Then hurried footsteps, and all of a sudden—Patrice took a deep breath—the door swung open with deceptive ease.

To his surprise it was not a servant but a young man near Patrice's own age, dressed like a gentleman. He looked Patrice up and down and blinked twice, rapidly. "Yes?"

Patrice was slightly taken aback by the lack of formality, but he had prepared the correct English phrases beforehand. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I'm looking for—"

He withdrew the paper, unfolded it, and displayed it to the young man. In impeccable handwriting it read:

_Sir Alexander Ferguson  
Trafford House  
Manchester_

The young man's eyes went from the writing, to Patrice's face, and back again. Patrice began to wonder if the carriage driver had made a mistake. As he was considering how to ask, the young man said, "I beg your pardon, but may I ask who..." He trailed off expectantly.

"My name is Evra," said Patrice, "and my letter is from Monseigneur Deschamps." At the young man's blank expression, he elaborated. "Comptroller for the principality of Monaco."

The young man blinked again as his mouth formed a small _o_. "I—yes," he said. "Of course. Let me—do come in." He stood back and ushered Patrice inside.

The hall was solid and dark; very different from the style Patrice was used to. He followed the nameless young man down the hall and into a small chamber. "You can wait here most comfortably, I'm sure," the young man said. "My name's Hargreaves. Owen Hargreaves." He stuck out a hand. Patrice, not bothering to assume a less forbidding expression, shook it.

"You're in luck," Hargreaves went on. "His lordship is in residence now—he spends much of his time in London, or in Scotland during the recess." He looked at Patrice uncertainly. "Of Parliament. Er, Parliament is, do you know—"

"Yes, thank you," Patrice said, dry. "I believe I've heard of it."

Hargreaves reddened a bit. "Right," he said. "Yes. Well. Why don't I go fetch his lordship and you... wait here."

Patrice took a seat in one of the gilt-edged chairs, examining the room. Somehow the decoration managed to appear severe, despite the touches of red and gold. A frieze of crossed arrows encircled the walls, just below the ceiling.

Hargreaves was back quickly. "His lordship will see you shortly," he said. As Patrice began to rise, Hargreaves said, "No, stay, he'll be along soon. He doesn't usually have anyone else to his study."

Patrice nodded. Hargreaves fell silent but lingered near the door; it was clear he wanted to say something. Patrice waited, and as usual the silence eventually compelled the other to speak.

"May I ask—that is, I hope you don't think me forward," Hargreaves began, which almost always prefigured forwardness. "A certain number of your countrymen have taken residence in this country and made names for themselves indeed. Surely—that is, would it not have been natural to join Wenger's salon in London...?"

The word of his native tongue sounded peculiarly incongruous coming from Hargreaves' lips, enough so that Patrice was able to reply very calmly. "Very natural, for a gentleman in good standing with the Crown. As I am an exile and a mutineer, I would undoubtedly be less welcome by the consul."

Hargraves blanched. "I—ah, that is—yes, of course. I beg your pardon, I believe I hear his lordship approaching. Do excuse me." 

He scurried out. Patrice leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms.

Abruptly the door flew open and Ferguson came in.

Patrice rose to his feet. Ferguson was of no great height, grey hair and a reddish face. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a coat of utilitarian cut. He cast a cursory look at Patrice and said, "You've got a letter, eh? Show it to me."

Patrice gave him Deschamps' letter. Ferguson pushed up his spectacles with one well-worked finger and began to read. He hadn't told Patrice he might sit, so Patrice remained standing as Ferguson read, thrown off balance by a peculiar sensation of awkwardness.

Ferguson made a decisive sound. "Seems clear enough," he said, folding the letter and tucking it into his own waistcoat pocket. "Have you any other immediate business?"

"Ah—" Patrice, awaiting further questioning, was caught without anything to say, a situation so unfamiliar as to unsettle him even further. He had expected to be asked about the petition, about his studies with Deschamps, at the least about his intentions in this country; he was unable even to determine if this was a cloaked dismissal.

Ferguson waited with a touch of impatience in his expression. "No, only—is it acceptable—is it might—" Patrice swore inwardly; he almost never lost his facility with foreign tongues, no matter how flustered he might be. "Might I stay," he finally got out, heedless of the unsuitable bluntness of the address. 

"What? Stay, certainly," Ferguson said, as if Patrice were the one to act strangely, "stay until you show yourself any good or not. It shouldn't take more than a fortnight. Hargreaves will show you your rooms. Good day." He gave a short nod and left with as little ceremony as he'd come.

Patrice remained where he was, unusually winded. After precisely a minute, Hargreaves popped into the room. Patrice had a feeling it had more to do with what Hargreaves thought was a proper interval of privacy than how far he'd gone from the door. "I'll show you your rooms, shall I?" he said. 

Patrice was further disconcerted by the contrast between Hargreaves' earlier caution and the buoyant abandon with which he now chatted as he led Patrice up two flights of stairs. "It's rather quiet now, I'm afraid—most of the House has gone down to London, though we expect them back in a few days' time. Oops, watch out there—" 

They nearly collided with a tall gangly figure, whose hair was a shade of ginger Patrice had never before seen in nature. He grunted something that sounded like, "Excuse me," gaze hardly flicking away up from the book in his hands, and made to move past, but Hargreaves grabbed his arm. "Scholes, hang on, you must meet our newest visitor."

That was sufficiently notable for the ginger—Scholes—to lift his head and peer at Patrice. Patrice looked back evenly. "Monsieur Evra," Hargreaves said with a terrible attempt at native pronunciation, "may I present Mister Scholes, senior scholar at the House."

Scholes gave a grunt of curiosity. "Evra. Familiar name. France, you say?"

Patrice didn't answer; after a minute Scholes' face cleared. "Right. That mess with the court. Well. Good luck around here. Run into you later, I'm sure. " He didn't wait for Patrice to answer before moving on, nose back to his book.

Hargreaves, with an anxious glance at Patrice, said,"You're just at the end of the hall." He led Patrice into a large sitting room, the outer chamber of a suite. "I imagine you'll want to rest?"

Patrice looked around. Through the connecting door he glimpsed a bed; plain though the furnishings were, it looked particularly soft and welcoming. It occurred to him very suddenly that he'd been traveling for several days. "Yes," he said. "I believe I do."

"Right," Hargreaves said with an air of relief. "Excellent. I'll see you later then, shall I? Good evening."

Patrice had scarcely had an opportunity to think of anything other than his destination since the ship had docked. Now his thoughts strayed along painfully well-worn paths. He lay awake, thinking of the gilded court, of Deschamps and Giuly, of the sun-washed arcades and broad avenues, until he was overcome by merciful sleep.

* * *

It was raining again.

Three days had passed. Patrice hadn't seen Ferguson since, nor had he met more than one or two of the residents of Trafford House. Hargreaves had spoken vaguely of training that would resume when the party on the road from London returned. In the interval, it was left to Patrice to explore his new residence.

The house itself, large and gloomy, was lent a particularly eerie emptiness with the absence of most of its inhabitants. Scholes spent much of his time shut up in his workshop, and Hargreaves appeared and disappeared with more unpredictability than a chimera. Patrice made the acquaintance of Ferguson's personal aide, a man called Giggs, and another scholar named Silvestre. No one made any mention of their work. 

Patrice spent much of his time in the library, which held a respectable collection, if by nature nothing like that of the Royal Academy. It seemed as if he moved in a dreamlike state, through a hazy landscape of unreality. Finally, the quiet was too much. He sought out Hargreaves and asked where he might buy a broadsheet with news of the continent.

Hargreaves drew him a map with a faulty pen, drops of sputtered ink spraying the page. "If you get lost just ask someone the way. Everyone knows Trafford House. Are you sure you wouldn't like a carriage?" 

Patrice was sure. He might as well familiarize himself with the city sooner rather than later.

Trafford and the townhouses adjoining it were built of sandstone, but as Patrice moved away from the high street, he was swallowed in a sea of soot-blackened brick, streets so narrow the walls seemed to press in on him under rooftops towering overhead. Patrice began to feel as if they would go on forever, until he was swallowed whole, no more than another smear of soot on the walls.

Eventually they spat him out on a wider street, where he found the printers' with little trouble. The gentleman who dealt with him didn't seem to find Patrice or his accent anything out of the ordinary; whether or not that was why Hargreaves had sent him to this particular shop, he didn't know. The broadsheet's headlines were of news he'd heard before departing Calais, several days ago, but Patrice bought one anyhow, with the remnant of the money he'd exchanged upon his arrival. The coins, their shape and weight, made an odd fit in his hand.

He'd need to find another 'change here in Manchester, he thought, as he left the shop. Perhaps the thought was what distracted him, because though he was sure he'd retraced his footsteps perfectly, suddenly he was aware that the street he walked down was narrowing to little more than a crumbling alley. 

It wasn't in Patrice's nature to panic. All the same, the twisting cobblestones suddenly seemed menacing in their unfamiliarity. He turned his back on the alley and followed the street back to its last intersection. There was no one in sight. He was nearly sure he'd come from the left—or was it the right? He stood very still and breathed in. From the left he heard the distant sound of rumbling wheels and of horseshoes. He turned in its direction.

It led him to a broad, busy street, but not one he'd seen before. It seemed to be a mercantile district; Patrice made out the scripted signboard of a trading company, adjacent to, from the smell of it, a coffee house. Passersby streamed along, not a one giving Patrice more than a second glance. He would have to approach one of them for help. Not one of the ladies; perhaps the gentleman emerging from the coffee house, who reminded Patrice of—

Patrice looked harder, and nearly did a double-take. Surely it couldn’t be. The tall, broad-shouldered figure turned and at the sight of his face Patrice called, "Morientes!"

Morientes stopped stock still, heedless of how he obstructed the flow of foot traffic, and searched the crowd in evident surprise until his eyes lit on Patrice. First he looked purely baffled; then his entire face lit up and he dove across the street. Patrice hurried to meet him and they collided in a strong embrace, Morientes' backslap nearly knocking Patrice off his feet. Morientes let him go and placed both hands on Patrice's shoulders, beaming his unmistakable whole-faced grin. When he spoke it was in a thick, mangled accent that made Patrice grin in return before so much as a full word was out of his mouth. "My little friend! How it fares?"

It was the first genuine laugh Patrice had given since docking in England. He dropped into Spanish and said, "As it happens, I'm lost."

"You? I'm shocked." Morientes laughed and gave him a ridiculous flourishing bow. "Maybe I can be of service."

"Trafford House," Patrice said. "Do you know it?"

Morientes' brows rose. "You're in luck, I know it very well. You're—oh, I beg your pardon." He moved out of the way of one passerby and nearly collided with another. "Follow me," he said. "We'll go by a route with space to breathe."

Patrice followed Morientes through the crowd and finally off the busy street to another, quieter road. They fell in step side-by-side and Morientes said, "So you're at Trafford House, are you?"

"A trial of sorts," Patrice began, but Morientes waved a hand.

"They'll take you, I'm sure, they'd be foolish not to." Then he said, more quietly, "I heard from Deschamps. About the petition. And—about Giuly."

Patrice was able to ignore the former statement in favor of the latter, the beginnings of another grin taking shape. "Oh, did you?"

Morientes took in his reaction and his brow furrowed. "That is—the last I heard he was jailed for insubordination, mutiny, and assault on an officer of the Crown, which is no matter of amusement... Evra?"

Patrice allowed the grin to blossom fully. "He broke out of prison under the nose of the Grand Marshal's personally selected guard and fled triumphantly on horseback to the border cheered on his way by scores of villagers. He's staying in Barcelona and enjoying the accolade of half the city."

Morientes choked. " _Barcelona?_ "

"That was the last word to reach Deschamps before I left France," Patrice said. "If he has other aims he's doing a good job of keeping them quiet."

"No one told me," Morientes said, half to himself. Then, sounding speculative, "Well, well, well. I'd like to hear from Ludo again. I wonder if he's had any reason to go south."

That moved Patrice to ask, "But what are you doing here, my friend? I thought you'd gone back to Madrid?"

Morientes smiled as he shrugged, but it notably failed to reach his eyes. "I did for a bit. Then I came here."

The years hadn't changed Morientes' tight-lipped reticence on the subject of his birthplace. Patrice let it go; instead he said, "I hadn't had word of it. How long? And in Manchester—but surely you're not with Ferguson, too?"

"Liverpool," Morientes corrected. "Perhaps half a year. I came to work with Hyppiä."

Patrice paused. "I don't know that name."

Morientes waved a hand. "He's an engineer, they're all engineers here. I must say, for all that the weather is foul and the cuisine abysmal, the engineering in England is unparalleled. I believe they're related, you know. The English have no pleasures in life to distract them from their work."

It struck Patrice, suddenly and with the force of a gut blow, that he would be spending the rest of his life here, caged on this island of damp grey uniformity. For a moment the realization took his breath away. He inhaled deeply and willed himself not to swear or lash out.

Morientes was watching him; Patrice thought he detected the faint hints of understanding or sympathy in his face. He said nothing, though, for which Patrice was grateful.

After a moment, Patrice was able to collect himself. "Tell me a little of the English style," he said, in a passably even voice. "I haven't seen them at work yet."

Morientes made a thoughtful noise. "I don't know if you'd call it a style, as such. Perhaps you've noticed they all refer to employing their skill as 'study'." Patrice nodded. "The English tend to feel a thing is useless unless it serves some sort of purpose in utilitarian life. Very practical. They're interested in searching out broader applications—there's a bit of an obsession with attempting to wed the stand to the physical, not that anyone's had much luck with that. They call them scapes here, by the way."

Patrice filed the analysis away for later reference. "And this Ferguson? He's the same?"

Morientes paused. "I believe the practical applications that interest his lordship are more political in nature."

As Patrice turned that over, Morientes said, "One other thing. They don't duel."

Patrice stared at him. "They don't what?"

"Not publically, at least. It's outlawed by both the City and the Crown."

"Then..." Patrice found himself at a loss for words. "What _do_ they do?" 

"I told you," Morientes said. "They study." They emerged from one street onto another, and suddenly Patrice recognized their surroundings. "Ah," Morientes said with satisfaction. "Here we are."

Patrice found himself peculiarly reassured by the sight of Trafford House only steps away. A figure stood on the front steps, watching the street with a palpable air of anxiety. As Patrice and Morientes drew near, the sound of their approach caught Hargreaves' ear and he turned quickly toward them .

"Evra!" Hargreaves exclaimed. "There you are, I was beginning to worry—" He caught sight of Patrice's companion and his spine went up.

"Morientes," he said coolly. "Good day."

"Good day," Morientes answered cheerfully in English. "How do you?"

Hargreaves tried to look disdainful, but his face was singularly unsuited to it. "Very well, thank you," he said, and turned deliberately to Patrice. "Evra, you're acquainted with this gentleman?"

Evra couldn't help his amusement, much as he would feel if confronted with a haughty kitten. "Very well," he said. "Señor Morientes was at the court in Monaco for some time. He is most skilled."

Hargreaves seemed torn between denial and aloofness. He cast Morientes a dark look and said, "Perhaps you don't know he's studying with the _engineers_."

Beyond Hargreaves, Morientes looked at Patrice and shrugged cheerfully, raising his eyebrows: he had no idea what Hargreaves was saying.

"Anyhow," Hargreaves said, clearly dismissing Morientes and by association the engineers and all their ilk, "Cristiano and the rest have returned from London. There's to be a study session this afternoon."

Patrice turned to Morientes. "I must take my leave here, it seems. We're to train today."

"Ah," Morientes said, eyes twinkling. "I understand. I'll be in Manchester a few days more; I'll send a message for you, shall I?"

"Please," said Patrice, sincerely, and Morientes took his leave with a cheerful wink.

"Come to the drawing room at four," Hargreaves told Patrice. "I'll find you if you get lost." Before Patrice could protest that he could hardly get lost in a house with which he'd had three days to familiarize himself, Hargreaves had disappeared again. Patrice had nothing to do but retire to his rooms for the following two hours and prepare himself for the impending assembly.

Seated in a soft-backed chair, he dozed, and woke with a start to the chiming of the clock in the hall. Quickly he splashed his face with water and went down to the drawing room.

From the sound of voices from within, the rest were already gathered. Patrice stopped outside the door, straightened his coat, and inhaled. Then he went inside. 

His first thought was that there were nearly as many foreigners as there were Englishmen. The clamor of competing tongues was loud enough to mask his entrance, and Patrice was able to observe the assembled company unnoticed. There were perhaps a dozen new faces, ranging in age from a mere youth to an unshaven man several years older than Patrice, and they appeared to come from an equal diversity of heritage. One, shorter than the rest, had features of a cast Patrice had never seen. Amidst the strangers he made out Scholes, Silvestre, and Hargreaves; Giggs was there, too, but no sign of Ferguson himself.

Scholes' voice cut through his thoughts. "Evra, good. May I do the introductions?" Patrice looked up and met a dozen pairs of curious eyes, all fixed on him.

Scholes was as good as his word, but the names went by too quickly and too frequently for Patrice to retain them. He noted a dark-haired young man staring at him curiously, before Scholes said his own name and he executed a minutely correct bow.

"Good, that's over with," Scholes said briskly. "All right, who's molding the scape?"

The one Patrice thought was named Heinze raised a hand. "My turn, isn't it?" He rolled his neck, cracking it, and said, "Expand."

"Don't leave yourself behind this time," someone said michievously. Heinze looked indignant, but before he could answer the stand—the scape—took hold and Patrice was looking up at a vaulted ceiling, painted in red and gold.

The others appeared to know what to do; they broke off in pairs or small groups, the hum of conversation occasionally broken by a laugh or an exclamation. Patrice watched them out of the corner of his eye, alert for any clue as to how to proceed.

"There's no set routine," a voice said behind him; it was Scholes. "It all depends on who's testing what theory at the moment."

Patrice acknowledged the explanation with a nod. "Is Fer—his lordship to observe us?"

"Later, perhaps," said Scholes. "He's quite busy at present." He consulted a much-folded paper; Patrice realized, with a spring of annoyance, that it was his letter of introduction. "Now. Deschamps said you were particularly good with counters."

"Thanks to his training," Patrice said, and stood fast against the assault of memory.

"Cristiano," Scholes called. The young man—hardly more than a boy—that Patrice had noticed earlier turned from where he was chatting with Heinze and trotted over.

"Evra is from France," Scholes said. "He's said to be skilled at counters of the continental school. Why don't you practice together?"

Cristiano looked at Patrice consideringly. Then, before Patrice had a chance to so much as address him, Cristiano rapped out, "Lightning strike. Elecric shock, forest fire, burn to the ground."

Patrice spared no time for aggravation at the ambush, the counter shaping as soon as Cristiano began to speak. "Ground out and dissipate. Charge negated. Sparks smothered."

"Earthquake." Cristiano's next attack came immediately. "Faultlines split apart, crevasses open. Shake to pieces."

"Roll with the cadence of the earth. Bend; don't break. Stabilize. Strengthen."

Cristiano was very good—flashy, undoubtedly, but effective. As he continued to press the attack, Patrice found himself fully occupied with countering it, unable to launch more than the most hurried and cursory counterattacks of his own. He could feel himself losing ground, as he was forced to expend more and more concentration on his defense, until he was so focused on his own words that he had only the barest warning that Cristiano was gathering himself for a decisive strike. 

"Avalanche," Cristiano said, "sweeping with the force of thousands. Crush rocks, splinter trees, eradicate everything in its path."

Patrice had a fraction of a second to decide between flexibility, and the risk of disintegration, and opposition, and the potential to be blown to smithereens. "Wall of granite," he threw out. "Resist with the strength of a mountain range."

For a minute Patrice thought it was going to hold. Then his defenses crumbled and the force of Cristiano's attack slammed against him and knocked him off his feet. It was too quick for him to break his fall and his full weight hit the floor, first his shoulders and then his head.

For a moment he saw stars. His ears were ringing.

"Evra?" Scholes' voice said. "You're all right?

He deliberately bit the inside of his cheek. The small sting of pain was sufficiently incongruous to jar him from the larger and he was able to answer, "Yes."

He raised himself on one elbow, pressing the other hand against the side of his head. The landscape of the stand doubled and pulsed; then his vision cleared and he made out Cristiano, who was staring at him with a mix of interest, appreciation, and slight petulance. Patrice stared back, unsmiling.

"Cristiano," Scholes said meaningfully. Moving with slight reluctance, Cristiano came over to Patrice and offered a hand. Patrice considered ignoring it, but his head was still spinning and he doubted his ability to rise on his own strength. He took it.

Cristiano heaved him to his feet and released him; Patrice swayed and realigned himself, catching his balance. "Very good," Cristiano said, only slightly grudging.

Scholes clapped Cristiano on the shouler and gave him a little shake that held at least as much force as affection. "Cristiano here is a bit of a prodigy," he said. "He doesn't take to being matched very well. You'll be good for him. Isn't that right, Cristiano."

Cristiano looked up and in an instant the aura of a bested child vanished as he grinned, a childish wide thing that transformed him to look the boy he was. "Who likes to lose?" he said.

"There are no contests within the House," Scholes said, "how many times must I tell you that," but he took his hand from Cristiano's shoulder and shook his head with a touch of tolerant exasperation. 

Cristiano said to Patrice, very serious, "We should train together until I can beat you."

"For some years then," Patrice replied, and Scholes gave a great snorting laugh. Cristiano eyed Patrice and then broke into another grin.

"Good," he said. "I can't wait." Patrice realized, with slight disbelief, that Cristiano was indeed serious. He couldn't help it: he gave Cristiano a small, incredulous smile in return.

"Park?" Scholes said to someone, and Patrice turned to see the slight one averting his eyes. "Have you a question?" Even as Park shook his head, Scholes left Cristiano and Patrice to move toward him.

"Come on," Cristiano said, "again," so Patrice settled into a comfortable stance and said, "Advance."

The training session went on for some time, until Scholes clapped his hands and said,"Right, we're done here. Gabriel?" 

The stand faded away. Patrice was so sore he thought he'd feel it outside the stand, but it wasn't for nothing; in the final contest he'd managed to hold off Cristiano entirely, taking no small pleasure in Cristiano's mixed irritation and relish. "Chipper bunch today, weren't you?" Heinze grumbled, but it sounded good-natured. Cristiano abandoned Patrice to latch onto Heinze as the whole group trooped away in the same direction. Patrice followed, unwilling to ask, until they reached the dining hall.

The courses came quickly. The bread was dense and solid, the meat boiled nearly to unrecognizability, and the vegetables soft and overcooked. Patrice glanced along the table; the rest, even the other expatriates, were eating with apparent enthusiasm. 

At first he concentrated on forcing down the meal, and the conversation swirled past his ears in a mishmash of vaguely familiar sounds. It was a familiar name that brought him up sharply, made him attend to the English words.

"—Wenger," Scholes was saying. "You wrote of his newest innovation but damned if that letter wasn't a greater tease than the man himself."

The subject of his address—Ferdinand, Patrice thought his name was—nodded vigorously even as he attempted to masticate another huge portion of roast. "They've worked out—" He chewed, swallowed, and cleared his throat. "They've worked out some confounded technique to share the load of a scape."

From the look on Scholes' face, he was as astonished as Patrice. "What in God's name do you mean?"

"They—I don't know how they do it, only the effect. They held a public demonstration at the Royal Academy, left us all gaping fools. You defeat the one holding the stand and instead of dissolving it shifts to one of the others. It's cursedly difficult even to figure out which of them takes it."

"But all the theory says it's impossible," Hargreaves broke in. "Chapman, Allison, Charlton—"

"Theory's all wrong then," said Ferdinand. "We all saw it."

Neville, the older one, made a dismissive noise. "We don't need to muck with fancy technique," he said. "It won't change the basic rules. So long as you're stronger than your opponent, you win. End of story."

A man Patrice hadn't noticed before—pleasant-faced, if unmemorable—said diffidently, "But mightn't there be something to be gained from exploring the methods, all the same?"

"You would think so," Neville grunted, before burying himself in his bowl of trifle. The other man flushed.

Patrice glanced at Scholes. "Owen," Scholes said, in response to his unasked question. "He came over to us from Hyppiä's people." He lowered his voice. "To be truthful, I suspect half the reason Ferguson took him on was to put one in the eye of the engineers."

The others were still discussing the conundrum of Wenger's discovery. "If we had Beckham," Owen began.

Neville snorted. "Beckham's best work for us is done elsewhere."

The general guffaws that greeted this gave Patrice an idea where exactly Neville meant. "Beckham is a favorite of Lady Victoria," Heinze explained to Patrice from across the table. "The countess of Essex. He lives in London the whole year round."

"I've hardly met him," Cristiano chipped in. "It's been that long since he's been back to Manchester."

"That's diplomatic relations, isn't it?" Ferdinand said, waggling his eyebrows. "Hard work, and I do say hard, if you know what I mean."

More snickering. Patrice felt the corner of his own mouth tug upwards. 

"But truly," Owen insisted, "I believe he could be of great assistance. He was always excellent at technique—oh, shut up," he said in exasperation, glaring at Ferdinand, who'd snorted again. 

Cristiano spoke up again. "Ruud always said—"

A chorus of groans arose. "Would you shut _up_ about van Nistelrooy," Ferdinand moaned.

Cristiano opened his mouth but Scholes cut him off. "You fought like cat and dog while Ruud was here," he said flatly. "I don't know what's gotten you thinking he was such a friend now that he's gone, but by God's mercy don't try and convince the rest of us."

"We got along fine," Cristiano said in a tone of deep injury. "He was a valuable—"

"Spare me," Scholes muttered. He turned to Patrice as Cristiano and Ferdinand began to argue and nodded across the table. "Talk to Park, will you? He wants to know more about you."

Park started and shot Scholes a look, panic layered over accusation, as a faint flush colored his face. No help was forthcoming. Almost unwillingly, Park met Patrice's eyes. "Ah," he said hesitantly, with a marked accent. "You're... French?"

"I think of myself so," Patrice said.

"And you find England—excuse me, _how_ do you find England?"

"Wet," Patrice said, his distaste coming through. "Extremely wet."

Park frowned. "You don't like it?"

This was surprising enough for Patrice to regard him with genuine curiosity. "Your country surely doesn't have so nearly so much rain?"

"No," Park said, "not at all. That's why I like it."

It was such a bizarre thought that Patrice had no response but to closely consider Park, who looked back at him in confusion, and then as Patrice continued his scrutiny, with deepening color. "Is that—have I given offense?" Park ventured finally. 

"No," Patrice said, frowning, "of course not." 

Park only looked more confused. They were mercifully rescued from further awkward overtures by the general dispersion of the dining company. Patrice rose, too, and followed Cristiano and Heinze from the hall, listening to them chat of their intent to search out a further evening's amusement in the city. He wondered, as he retired to his rooms, how the entertainment of Manchester compared to that of Paris, and banished the thought without further reflection.

* * *

Cristiano wanted to practice again the next morning. Patrice, with a thought for his bruises, persuaded him to put it off until the afternoon. In the mean time, he meant to pursue Morientes' description of English theory.

In the library, he tried to remember the names Hargreaves had mentioned the day before. Chapman was one, and the other something like Charleston, or Charlton. He ran a finger across a line of leather bindings, considering where to begin.

A soft cough behind him made him turn. It was Park. "Do you look… are you looking for something?"

Patrice was prepared to say no, then thought better of it. "A good volume on the use of speech in England, if you know of anything suitable. Or of theory, history—"

Park was already furrowing his brow. "French? Or English?"

"Either," Patrice said. He watched Park move from shelf to shelf, selecting title after title. "You don't need to fetch them for me," he felt compelled to say. "I would be glad for your recommendations alone."

"But I know where they are," Park said. He frowned at the shelf and selected one final volume to add to the stack in his arms. With a nod of satisfaction, he carried the books over to the nearest desk and stacked them in a neat, careful pile atop it. Patrice followed.

"Thank you," he said.

"You can look for me," said Park. "If you have any questions." He gave Patrice another small smile and left him alone.

Patrice sifted through the books. Amidst the thick, imposing histories was a smaller volume stamped with the Trafford seal. Curious, Patrice pulled it toward himself and opened the cover.

He roused himself some hours later, at the far-off sound of a bell. He checked his watch and found to his bemusement that it was noon. He looked down at the page, where the history of Trafford House and Manchester had finally reached the present day.

The bell had been for lunch. He left his books carefully arranged, the top volume open to indicate they weren't to be put away, and went to the dining hall.

Park was there, seated at the end of the table next to Cristiano and across from Heinze. After a moment's consideration, Patrice went to take the seat on his other side. 

"Thank you," he said. "That was… a great help."

Park smiled with clear pleasure. "Good. I'm glad."

Cristiano leaned around him. "Evra, we'll train this afternoon, won't we?"

Patrice was again hard-put to repress his amusement. "We'll meet at two," he said. "As promised."

"Hargreaves says you have a Spanish friend studying with the engineers," Cristiano persisted. "What do you know about the Spanish style?"

He was drawn into a debate over the subtleties of technique in Spain, Portugal, and France. His answers were brief, but no one seemed to take offense, or even to particularly notice. When the argument ebbed, Patrice felt enough at ease to raise his own question. 

"May I ask something?"

Park looked curious and Cristiano quirked one eyebrow as Heinze said around a mouthful, "Go 'head."

"None of you were raised in England?" All three nodded. "Can you explain to why there are no duels here? I was told it was outlawed."

Cristiano and Heinze exchanged a look. Cristiano rolled his eyes. "The Lord Mayor calls it cowardly. Don’t know the King's excuse. Probably the Prime Minister's orders."

Of all possible answers, that wasn't one Patrice had anticipated. "But surely, as a means to settle disputes— It causes no disorder, no destruction, no damages to property or danger to the greater public—"

"That's it, isn't it?" Heinze said. "There's no true risk, by their calculations. Not yet."

Park said quietly, "It's because they can't see what's happening. They can't control what they cannot see."

"Do they duel in your country, Park?" Cristiano asked, elbowing him in the side.

"There are duels," said Park.

It wasn't quite an answer. Neither Cristiano or Heinze seemed to notice. Patrice leaned back. When it came down to it, his last duel had ended in ignominy, disgrace, and exile. He had no eagerness to repeat the experience.

The afternoon's bout with Cristiano was every bit as extreme as Patrice had expected. He found his own competitive spirit rising in response to Cristiano's skill, and by nightfall was so exhausted that he slept, for the first time, without dreaming.

He returned to the library the following morning, where he was surprised to find Park at one of the desks, head bent over the page with a frown of concentration. Patrice thought to leave him to his books, but found his feet approaching of their own accord.

"Do you come here every day?" Patrice asked, when he stood over Park's shoulder.

Park's head shot up. "Oh," he said, flushing, "good morning." He paused and then said, "Not every day."

Something about his inflection made Patrice's lips quirk. Park ducked his head, acknowledging his own admission with a smile. "I still have so many things to study," he said, and added with a touch of wistful admiration, "You speak English very well. Much better than I do."

"It was taught to me from a young age." It occurred to Patrice that perhaps he should be more forthcoming. "Though I was born in France, my father was a native of the colonies. He learned the ways of the French and returned to their country as a royal scholar. A linguist."

"He's passed his gift to you," Park said.

Patrice gave a tight nod. "I would have preferred it to have been a living." Not for him, but for his brothers and sisters, who were now tarred with the brush of mutineer.

"Have you family at home?" he asked, after a pause.

Park didn't answer for a moment. When Patrice looked at him, he smiled, but the expression lacked sincerity. "Cousins," he said. "There was an invasion when I was a child… We have a history of that." One finger absently traced the desk's carved embellishment. "I'm very lucky to study here," he said softly. "I must make the most of my opportunity."

Patrice was unsure how to respond. Park gave him another smile. "I mustn't keep you from your reading."

Patrice returned to his own books. For the rest of the morning he worked through the stack of volumes—yet even as he finished the history of Trafford House and turned to a heavier work of theory, requiring his full attention, Park's words lingered.

* * *

A message came for Patrice the next day, from Morientes. They met at the coffee house where Patrice had first seen him. The coffee itself was of unexpectedly good quality. Patrice drank deep, inhaling the familiar burnt odor.

"It reminds me of a shop in Madrid," said Morientes, in response to Patrice's question. He leaned back. "I come here often when I have business in Manchester."

"How often is that?"

Morientes grinned suddenly, his eyes crinkling. "All of twice, so far." He leaned back, sliding his hands in his coat pockets and crossing one leg over the other. "Now that your new colleagues are back, what do you make of them?"

Patrice frowned. "They're an oddly assorted group. Some of them are very skilled—far more than I expected, from your description." 

"Oh?" Morientes attempted for a note of surprise, but his eyes were suspciously mirthful. "Did you by chance think that pragmatism and skill were exclusive?"

Patrice gave him his most unamused look. Morientes only laughed. "And what news did they bring from London?"

Patrice relayed the description of Wenger's new tactic. "I've heard of nothing like it before. Have you?"

Morientes' eyebrows had risen halfway up his forehead. "No. No, as a matter of fact I haven't." He regarded the table thoughtfully. "I should write home. I know several who'd find this quite interesting."

"Wenger held Deschamps' office in Monaco once, you know," Patrice said. "Many years ago."

"No, I didn't," said Morientes. He asked, more quietly, "Deschamps fares well still?"

Patrice nodded.

Morientes exhaled. "Good. I'm glad to hear it." He smiled, with a touch of reminiscence. "Those were very good days, in their way. I remember…"

Patrice remembered, too. He hardly heard Morientes' voice, for remembering. He shut his eyes and thought of the sooty smoke in the grey sky, the grimy brick, the persistent, neverending rain.

"How do you stand it," Patrice said, very low. "How."

The smile dropped from Morientes' face. 

Around them, boisterous English voices rose and fell. Patrice's hands gripped his knees, his eyes locked on Morientes' face.

Morientes said finally, "Who does?" He placed a hand on the table, palm flat. "It's different. For me."

He looked up at Patrice.

"It's not the country that I can't have," he said.

Patrice had no reply. Morientes got up, brushing off his coat and breeches. "I'm returning to Liverpool tomorrow," he said. "I'm afraid I don't know when next I'll be in Manchester."

Patrice rose, too, and together they left the dim room. On the doorstep Morientes said, "Send for me any time you like. I'll do my best to lend a hand."

Patrice couldn't keep from asking, "How long will you stay there?"

Morientes didn't answer. After a second, he looked at Patrice with an acknowledging twist of the lips. His eyes were remote. "Not much longer, I don't think."

"Send me a note when you leave," Patrice said, and Morientes nodded.

They said their farewells at Morientes' lodgings, which were near the high street. Patrice had taken no more than a few steps when a familiar, accented voice called, "Evra!" 

Patrice turned. Park was hurrying toward him. He slowed to a stop in front of Patrice, breath coming fast. There was a sealed slip of paper clutched in his hand.

"There was a message delivered to you at the House." Park looked from Patrice to the lodging house and back again. "I thought it must be from your friend—but—"

Patrice broke the seal and unfolded a single a sheet of paper. He stood, looking at it, for a long moment.

On it was written in French:

     _Why didn't they give you the punishment you deserved?_

Patrice turned the paper over, slowly. Underneath his name, in place of a title, was written, _Traitor_.

Slowly, Patrice crumpled it into a ball, until his knuckles were white. He let it fall to the street, where he ground it under his heel. Then he turned and strode away.

He heard footsteps behind him, running, and didn't turn his head. Park caught up with him, breathing hard. Patrice still didn't speak or take his eyes from a fixed point in in the distance, not until the bulk of Trafford House loomed up before them and he had to turn and mount the steps, wrench open the door.

He went blindly for the library, the only place that felt like sanctuary. Park followed him, slowing, remaining a step behind. Patrice came to a stop next to his desk and brought his fist down on it, hard, rattling the entire piece. He lowered his pounding head, breathing through his nostrils, hearing it again, again. Traitor. Traitor.

After a time, he lifted his head. 

Park was still there. Patrice forced himself to collect his composure. He put the fisted hand down at his side and straightened.

"I apologize," Patrice said, forcing the words through stiff lips. "That you had to observe such an unseemly display."

Park shook his head. "No, not… not in all. At all." The words spilled quickly from his lips, in a tone of distress. "I'm sorry, I don't know—no, I didn't know—"

"No," Patrice said. "No. It was a message from a countryman. You couldn't have known."

Park shook his head again. His eyes were anxious. "I should leave you in peace?"

"I—" Patrice turned to face him

Park's face was open and undemanding. He had asked nothing. Perhaps that was why Patrice wanted to tell him.

"I was trained in Monaco," Patrice said, "and called to the capital because of my promise. To the court. A select group, meant to represent the finest of the country."

Park didn't move.

"We were meant to serve under the orders of the Grand Marshal, a royal command." Patrice's lip curled at the mere mention of Domenech's office. "He abused his power, abused his privilege. It weakened us, and more perilously, weakened the country. To have those of the greatest skill fighting among themselves, imprisoned on the slightest pretext, sent back to the countryside at a whim—"

He took a deep breath. "I had a friend—an old friend, from my studies in Monaco. He was from an ancient house, very powerful. We thought between the two of us—" He shook his head. "We thought they couldn't ignore our complaints, if we presented them on behalf of the whole company. We were all agreed. We put our complaints in writing, and signed it with all our names."

They had all been expelled from service—every name on the petition.

"We were right, in a way. They couldn't ignore our complaints, because they were just ones. But they couldn't allow an ordinary subject to challenge the appointment of the Crown." Patrice's lips curved, but he wasn't smiling. "Particularly not the son of a colonist."

Park was still silent, listening. "My—master, I suppose you'd call it English, my mentor, sent me here. I trust him—I've always trusted him. But how could he send me—how—" Patrice leaned over and put his head in his hands.

For a moment, he heard nothing but the sound of his own breathing. Then a footstep, then a soft, hesitant hand on his shoulder.

"When I came here," Park said, speaking slowly, stumblingly. "There was nothing here to remind me of home. None of my countrymen, no one who spoke a common tongue. No one even knew the name of my country. At first I blamed them, the people here, for their difference, for ignorance. But in the end…"

"I found that—that if I waited, for the world to adapt itself to me, I would wait forever. I had to look myself. To find something worthwhile." He drew a breath. "And I saw that… there's nowhere so unique in the world that you can't find a crumb of it somewhere else.

Patrice raised his head.

Park was looking down at him. He lifted his shoulders and smiled, with a hint of self-deprecation. "It's different. I could go back, if I truly wanted. I will someday. But then I couldn't return here again."

Patrice absorbed his words in silence.

"The rain can be a little much, I suppose," Park added, which for some reason made Patrice laugh, if somewhat dryly. Park gave him a small smile and took his hand away.

"Will you come to dinner?" he asked. "Or should I say you're unwell?"

"No," Patrice said. He rose. "I'll come with you."

At the door, Park hesitated. Patrice waited for him to speak.

"Call me Ji-Sung," said Park. "If you like."

* * *

Perhaps he should have expected it—expected something, at least, from the message delivered to Trafford House the next day summoning him to Morientes' inn. But his first thought was of trouble, that something had gone wrong, that Morientes was in need of his help. The scrap of paper fell to the floor unheeded and he dashed from the house with all speed.

Even when he drew within sight of the inn, he was slow to realize his mistake. A familiar figure waited under the eaves, but it wasn't Morientes.

"Flamini," Patrice said, as Flamini stepped out to meet him. "What in the name of God are you doing here?"

"It was you," Flamini said, eyes alight with a feverish brightness. "I knew it. I knew it. I heard the word reach those Trafford louts that a Frenchman had come to their little house and I knew—"

Patrice shook his head, holding up a hand. "Stop," he said. "Stop. Where did you hear this? What have you done since…" He couldn't bring himself to say, _since your expulsion_.

"I've been to London," Flamini said. "To see if Wenger's salon would have me."

"And did they?" Patrice had to ask.

Flamini laughed scornfully. "What do you think?"

"No," Patrice said, in a low voice. "I suppose not."

"I'll have to try Italy next, I suppose," Flamini said. "There's nothing for me here."

Patrice hadn't the authority to suggest it, but he couldn't help himself. "Perhaps Ferguson—"

Flamini laughed again, with a harsher edge. "What would I do there? These English, they know nothing of real technique. They're like children, floundering in the dark. Children or cows."

Patrice found his temper rising. "Perhaps you should see them work before you draw your conclusions."

Flamini said, "Perhaps you should have kept your damned mouth shut and I wouldn't have to!"

Patrice stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

Flamini said, sounding furious, "Not everyone agreed with you. Did you ever think of that? Now we're all exiles, because of you. You weren't doing anyone any favors but yourself!"

"You think I did it for myself." Patrice was aware he was nodding, calmly, even as a molten swell of fury rose inside him.

"You didn't do it for _us_ ," Flamini said. "That's clear enough."

"I did it for my country."

Flamini spat, "It's not your country any more."

Patrice didn't think; he moved. He lunged forward and knocked Flamini to the ground. Flamini's flailing arm caught him in the side but Patrice held him down by the collar and snarled, "Expand."

It was a duel only in the loosest sense of the word. Flamini hardly made an opponent, as Patrice knocked him back and back and back again, scarcely pausing for breath between assaults. Flamini made a struggling attempt to counter, but the contest was decided as soon as it had begun. Finally Flamini held up both hands.

"Concede," he gasped, and fainted.

For a terrible, bloodthirsty moment, Patrice thought about striking him again.

He dropped the stand. Abruptly the hard ache of the cobblestones under his knees returned. He was crouched over Flamini, who was unconscious. His shoulders heaved. The sound of his own heavy breathing saturated his ears.

Very slowly, his head began to clear. Sound penetrated: a low, nervous murmur of voices. He looked up and saw a half-circle of bystanders huddled together staring at him, apprehension clear in their faces and their bearing. He looked down. His hand was still fisted in Flamini's cravat. He let go, avoiding the crowd's gaze, and pushed himself to his feet.

A voice behind him said, "Surrender your person in the name of the Lord Mayor of Manchester."

Patrice turned and saw the city guard lined up against him.

He put his hands down.

* * *

Patrice didn't know how long he sat in the dank cell—if it was truly hours, or if it merely seemed so. He didn't know how long he stared, blankly, at the cracks in the stone floor, as he thought of the last prison he'd avoided. He wondered where he could go now.

The light through the single window was dimming to grey dusk when the noise of a commotion drifted down the hall. Patrice, assuming it was another constable, was therefore nearly too confused to react when an officer came to his door and unlocked it, gesturing him out of the cell and down the hall.

They reached the entrance and Patrice understood.

"Come along," said Scholes.

There was a carriage waiting outside. Scholes didn't speak for the whole of the rattling ride back to Trafford House, so Patrice followed his lead. Through the curtained windows he observed the begrimed facades of Manchester roll by. Between them, several times, he caught glimpses of the canal, of the harbor. He hadn't realized it was so near—he hadn't looked for it. It hardly mattered now.

He followed Scholes, silently, to the chamber where he'd first been interviewed.

Once inside, Scholes let out a heavy exhalation and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wenger's going to stand up for Flamini. Apparently he has an invitation to the salon now."

Patrice wondered what Flamini would think about the fact that he'd owe his place there to Patrice after all. That, too, no longer mattered.

Scholes appeared to be waiting for him to speak. He took a deep breath. "I imagine I can find passage soon enough to avoid inconvenience, if I might have a day to prepare my effects." Or perhaps Liverpool, he thought, where Morientes would vouch for him, if that meant anything; though why go to the trouble, if it would always end the same way?

Scholes was looking at him as though he was speaking in tongues. "Passage? On a _ship?_ What do you want that for?"

"For breaking the city law," Patrice said. "Surely—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Scholes said briskly. "His lordship would hardly allow such a thing."

After a moment Patrice said, "I don't understand."

"I came to get you, didn't I?" Scholes spoke patiently as if to a child. 

"But—the law," Patrice said.

"You _may_ get a reprimand of some sort," Scholes allowed. "You probably won't, though." He shrugged. "They'll learn to recognize you soon enough. His lordship doesn't like outsiders interfering with his people."

There was no answer Patrice could possibly give. He could only stand close-lipped, gaze straight, hands at his sides.

He had only the moment's warning of a footstep at the door before it opened and Ferguson came in.

"Leave us to speak for a moment," Ferguson said, and Scholes bowed himself out.

Ferguson examined Patrice narrowly. "Got yourself in trouble, did you.

"Sir," Patrice said, and had to stop to clear his rasping throat. "My most. My deepest… gratitude, and…"

Ferguson made a short gesture, effectively cutting him off. It occurred to Patrice, suddenly, that his lordship was ill at ease with excessive feeling. "Stupid law," Ferguson said. "Silly to let whinging little bureaucrats get too carried away with themselves. Shouldn't regulate what they don't understand."

Patrice wasn't sure if he was meant to agree or remain silent. He settled for a nod. 

"Training tomorrow," Ferguson said. "I want to see you and Cristiano go against each other."

"Yes, sir," said Patrice. 

He didn't realize what he'd said until Ferguson had already turned away. He stood in the room for a time after Ferguson left, mind blank.

His gaze came to rest on the frieze decorating the wall. They weren't arrows, he saw. They were spears, crossed: the defense of a legion.

He went down to the drawing room, where once again raised voices spilled out into the corridor. "There you are, Evra," Scholes said, as he entered. "I was wondering where you'd got to."

Patrice looked around. Ferguson was there; his arms were crossed and his head bent to listen to Giggs, who stood alert and straight-shouldered at his right. Cristiano and Heinze were bantering cheerfully, shoving at each other's shoulders, and Park — Ji-Sung was lingering near Scholes and Patrice, making a very good show of appearing not to pay them any attention at all. Patrice was nearly disoriented as for a brief, kaleidoscopic moment the airy gilt ornamentation of Deschamps' salon in Monaco overlaid the severe lines of the drawing room.

When he came back to himself, he saw that Scholes was waiting for him to respond to something. "I beg your pardon?"

"We're preparing an excursion to Liverpool in a fortnight," Scholes said. "You're with us, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Patrice. "I am."

 


End file.
